Seventeen
by She Ain't No Blondie
Summary: Amell is only seventeen. A seventeen-year-old is too young to be a hero.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Seventeen

**Summary: **Amell is only seventeen. A seventeen-year-old is too young to be a hero.

**Notes:** A segment of seventeen vignettes, each one exactly 200 words. Amell/Alistair.

**Seventeen**

She thinks they conveniently forget that she is only seventeen.

A seventeen-year-old mage turned Grey Warden.

It's because she's seventeen that she feels butterflies in her stomach whenever Alistair talks to her, smiles at her—that _stupid_, boyish smile.

She was a mage, fraternization in the Tower was forbidden.

She pretends to be stronger than she really is, barking out orders, making the decisions no one else wants to take responsibility for ("We'll seek out Arl Eamon first"), but inside the butterflies shrivel up in fear.

She's not Morrigan. She's not a witch with experience—she couldn't even dress the way Morrigan does.

Not that Alistair would mind. The hatred he has for the swamp witch is obvious even to Amell.

"No _decency_," he mutters to her. "She thinks she's so _clever_."

Amell rolls her eyes. "You were being a baby," she chides.

Alistair looks hurt. "My socks were wet, and it's _cold_," he whines. But then he smiles at her—_that smile_—and her heart melts.

"Oh, well, I suppose my socks won't matter if we're dead," he says, quickening his pace so Amell has to keep up.

Amell wonders if she's even told anyone that she's only seventeen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Seventeen

**Summary: **Amell is only seventeen. A seventeen-year-old is too young to be a hero.

**Notes:** A segment of seventeen vignettes, each one exactly 200 words. Amell/Alistair.

**Seventeen**

Her first time isn't romantic. The books she read described candlelit dinners, flowers in vases, romantic whispers.

Instead, her robe is hiked up to her thighs, her legs coated in mud, and she's between a tree trunk and Alistair.

He pushes into her, and there's a sudden sharp pain. He thrusts harder, and she adapts to his rhythm. She pushes back against him, like they're in the middle of a battle, and it's either him or her. He grasps at her sides, digging his fingers into her hot skin, and she retaliates by biting his shoulder, muffling her moans so those at the camp won't hear them.

She closes her eyes, imaging a warm bed, the luxury of being _wooed_ as Leliana describes it.

Alistair seems to be able to read minds, because he slams into her, and she stares at him as he says, "Don't pretend," in a gruff voice that isn't usual for him.

He pushes his weight onto her, and she feels claustrophobic for the first time. "We're here. It's me," he says in between grunts.

Amell moans, somewhere between fear and pleasure.

She understands this darkness inside of him. Connor was only sacrificed six hours ago.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Seventeen

**Summary:**Amell is only seventeen. A seventeen-year-old is too young to be a hero.

**Notes:** A segment of seventeen vignettes, each one exactly 200 words. Amell/Alistair.

**Seventeen**

Male mages are like moths—they're awkward-looking and get too excited near light sources. Male Templars are more like churches—all ominous and stoic.

Those are the only types of males she knows. She associates the other sex as a mixture of uncontrollable magic and being told that it's past your bed time or you're not allowed to do magic in the hallways.

She's never met an Alistair, who—yes, almost a Templar—whines just to get a rise out of her.

She's never met a Zevran, who just _looks_ at her to get a rise out of her.

Amell feels her face flame up, and she almost wanders if her it's possible for her to self-combust from Zevran's lecherous looks.

Alistair doesn't like Zevran. He doesn't seem to particularly care for other males, especially those that are either taller, stronger, or cockier than he is. Which, for this particular band of misfits, happens to be not just be the men but also the women.

"He's not _that_ good looking, is he?" Alistair mutters, as Zevran saunters at the front of their group.

"My dear Alistair, you know I am!"

Amell giggles. Men outside the Tower are definitely more interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Seventeen

**Summary:**Amell is only seventeen. A seventeen-year-old is too young to be a hero.

**Notes:** A segment of seventeen vignettes, each one exactly 200 words. Amell/Alistair.

**Seventeen**

Amell refuses to cry.

Alistair just holds her. He lets her alternate between grabbing onto his shirt and then pounding her fists against his chest.

"Shh," he whispers against her hair.

If she was somewhat alert of her senses, she would realize how pathetic this is. Crying over Cullen—a Templar who only ever murmured and stammered.

But he had been the Tower, and the Tower had been home, and they both were collapsing before her eyes.

"I couldn't help them," she whispers.

"I know," says Alistair, because he understands. Because her Tower is his Duncan, and there's nothing left for either of them.

"Was he your first love?" he asks. It's matter of fact, no different than asking if you're hungry or cold.

"What?" Amell peers up at him.

"Was he your first love?" There's a pause. "You know, butterflies in your stomach, redness in your cheeks. Makes you twirl your hair kind of first love? That's what girls do, right? Twirl their hair."

She giggles, and hits him again, but this time it's softer. "I think he spoke all of five complete words to me the ten years I knew him."

"Ah, not as suave as I am."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Seventeen

**Summary: **Amell is only seventeen. A seventeen-year-old is too young to be a hero.

**Notes:** Thank you all so much for your lovely comments. I'm happy you're enjoying, and find the 200 words to be working.

**Seventeen**

Jowan was _forgetful_. He was the sort that you send to get you a fork and he came back with a spoon.

But Amell loved him. She loved him because he told her the best stories when they seven-years-old, and then she loved him because he would bring her milk with sugar when she was having a bad day. Jowan was her brother, another caged bird.

But then he wanted to be free and _in love_, and because of him Amell was now a Grey Warden, had killed more people than bugs her entire life.

She hated him. Hated him because he forgot about _her_, and chose someone else, and now he would inevitably be executed and she would inevitably die.

But mostly she hated him because he reminded her of who she had been only a few months ago. A naïve mage who thought the Tower was all the world had to offer.

"Do you think mages can love?" Jowan asked her one.

"No," she said.

"Do you think Grey Wardens can love?" Alistair asks her, when their sweaty, bloody, and thanking some divine being somewhere for surviving through another fight.

She smiles at him. "Of course," she says.


	6. Chapter 6

**Seventeen**

After they've made camp and no one is looking, Amell pretends to hold a funeral for her Circle. She makes tiny holes in the dirt, fourteen graves for the mages, twelve for the Templars. She uses a stick to draw tiny crosses. She sticks objects in them, stand-ins for the bodies: a dried up seed, a tarnished ring, one of Alistair's old socks.

She misses the Tower. There was an odd sense of peace in not knowing what was out there.

Now she's always paranoid. A rustle in the bushes may be an ambush. Beggars in the street may be assassins. Her comrades may be waiting to stab her in the back.

Sometimes it was just easier sneaking from Templars.

There's a rustle behind her, and her fingers tense, ice coursing through them.

"It's awfully lonely in your tent."

Amell remembers to breathe. "I thought Dog would keep your company," she says.

Alistair grins. "He just snores, and you smell much better." He gives a brief glance at her tiny graves, but doesn't say anything. Instead he wraps his arms around her, and she can barely breathe, but he's warm and comforting.

Perhaps she doesn't miss the Circle that much.


	7. Chapter 7

"What happens if you become king?" Amell whispers into the darkness.

She feels Alistair tense above her. "Um," he says, with some hesitation. "Is this really the best time to discuss this?"

Amell wriggles a little, feeling him inside of her. "Would you still love me?"

"I would have to die before I stopped loving you," he answers, staring right into her eyes.

She relaxes a little, urges her hips into his, and he grunts. "You need to be king," she continues.

He stops again, this time in mid-thrust, and she can't help the whine that comes out of her mouth. "I'm no king," he says.

"You would be a good king," she says, and she means it. "You have a good heart, and, despite what you want everyone else to think, you would be a good leader."

Alistair laughs. "Anora is queen, let her be queen. I have no desire to be… royalty."

Amell ignores him, because she knows the inevitable. "Promise… promise we can at least still be friends," she says, sadly.

"If I'm king," he says, and he begins moving again, clearly past the point of being serious, "I promise I will never let you leave my side."


End file.
